I don’t walk with a swagger
I’m not a callused hand
I don’t wish for stars
Or four leaf clovers
I sing with a guitar that holds a tune
But my voice is held under water
In a rusty tin can
So I sleep in a cold corner
With a sore back on my side
I run out of gas
When I’m driving too fast
And my knives all go blunt
So my pencils aren’t sharp
But I’m still trying hard
To grow something again
Tag: tin
Silence in the Morning (day 2610)
Please take the silence out of my morning
Take me towards what I’ve dreamt
For the sand in my eyes reminds me every day
That the cold season is rapidly approaching.
But if the day hasn’t come and darkness still rides
Let me sleep here a little while longer
While the wind isn’t blowing so dangerously
While the pain doesn’t hurt so tremendously
For my senses haven’t yet taken over
In a long line of tin cups and fevers
That keep me hoping the silence stays a moment or two
For me to have a chance to be soothed.
Blue Bins (day 1924)
Tin cans
Easily forgotten plastic
Please rinse
Looking For Hope (day 1690)
From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.
Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
BOX 05 – EVIDENCE
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.
The Number Two (day 1197)
Laughter is the animal,
Spirit of mother goose.
Summer around little rock
And monkey isn’t right.
Delight a fancy chimney sweep,
Pitter-patter on the roof.
Love in a tin bucket twice
Spitoon for primal juice.
Guns and other ghastly ammunition
Scare a whisper like a ghost,
Take a little sharp arrow
Pierce appointed hour aloof.